Darklands (35 page)

I didn’t blink. I sat down beside him and touched his arm. He still felt solid.

He opened watery eyes. “Well, Vic,” he said with a rueful smile, “I hate to admit it, but it looks like you get to ditch the old man after all.”

“No.” For a minute, that one syllable was all I could trust my voice to produce. “I will never, ever ditch you. What’s wrong, Dad?” I felt like a fool asking the question. It was obvious what was wrong. My father was dying.

“Remember what I said before? My time here is running out. It’s happening faster than I hoped.” He wiped his forehead with his hand, then showed me the moisture on his palm: streaks of color, as though a painter had swept watercolors across his hand. “The magic is leaving me. It’s sweating itself out. I may have sped up the process. We’re close to Tywyll now. The pull is so strong, and I’ve been resisting it so hard…”

I put an arm around him, and he slumped against me. I’d never felt so damn helpless.

“I had a theory,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like I’ll get to test it.”

“What theory?” I pulled him closer to me, as though I could hold him here through sheer will.

“About the magic here. There’s a legend about springs where pure magic bubbles up from the ground.”

I nodded. He’d mentioned that to me when we left his cave.

“It’s not just a legend. When I was working in the royal library, I found a map. It showed the location of three such springs. I copied it. I thought if I could get to a spring, it would give me strength to resist the cauldrons, maybe even lighten up these black clothes—that was the theory, Vic. I almost made it. Now, I’ll never know.”

“Wait. You almost made it?” My pulse picked up at the thought. “Are we near a spring?”

“Not far. But it’s too late.”

“Which way is it? I’ll get you there.”

“Forget it. I know the prophecies. I know what will happen, out there in the Ordinary, if Pryce gets his shadow demon back. You can’t trade all those lives for mine. I’m already dead.” His eyes closed and he paled another degree. “Twice over.”

Dad’s knapsack—he’d packed a map in it. I jumped up and went through the bag, tossing aside a knife, a cup, some apples. My fingers found a roll of parchment. I pulled it out, opened it.
Yes.
A map.

There was the road we’d been following. There was Tywyll. The clusters of houses were drawn in but not named—how could I figure out where we were? Wait. I’d noticed that crooked dovecote, like a small-scale version of the leaning tower of Pisa. It was in the last village we’d passed. In a minute, I had our location. Dad was right. A spring was close by.

Dad moaned softly. It was a sound I’d heard ten years ago. On that night, my father had died as I watched, unable to help him.

I would not let that happen again.

I scooped up my father into my arms like a child and ran for the spring.

THE WOODS GREW DENSER AS WE WENT DEEPER INTO THEM. I thought we were close to the spring now, but how would I know when we were there? I was afraid I’d run right past it.

Then I heard it.

I stopped. The sound was like water splashing over rocks, but more musical, almost like harp strings. I went toward the sound. It grew louder, and I noticed a sharp, metallic, almost electrical
smell. That was how Dad had described the smell of magic. I looked down at him. His eyes were closed. He was so thin, so pale.

Even though I could hear the magic, and smell it—hell, I could almost taste it—I couldn’t locate it. I’d follow the sound, only to have it ricochet to another location. Then it would happen again. The spring was hidden somehow. I wanted to weep with frustration. All the time I searched, my father was fading.

A bead of iridescent sweat dropped from Dad’s forehead. It fell to the ground with a soft
plink
, like a note on a toy piano. The tiny sphere didn’t flatten or sink into the ground. It rolled. Another drop of sweat followed it.

Dad had said he was sweating out the magic that made up his body. Maybe these small drops of magic were returning to their source.

I followed the rolling spheres. They went up a small rise, curved around a tree, and disappeared into a pile of leaves on the forest floor. The music of the spring seemed to be coming from behind me now, but I focused on the beads of magic. Another fell from Dad and rolled into the leaf pile. I walked around the pile. The drop didn’t emerge from the other side.

I gently set Dad on the forest floor. Then I reached out to clear away the pile of leaves. My hand passed through something solid. It felt like a thin sheet of ice, except it wasn’t cold. There was a loud crack, like a mirror breaking, and the illusion fell away. A small pool, perfectly round and no bigger than two feet across, glimmered at my feet. I’d found the spring. Magic, like liquid gems in a million brilliant colors, flowed and shimmered at my feet. The pool sparkled with an internal light, brighter than any I’d seen in the Darklands. It was beautiful, mesmerizing. I could watch those shifting colors forever.

I tore my gaze away and went back to my father. The magic was leaving him even faster now, returning to the spring. Somehow I had to reverse the flow. But how? Did he drink the magic? Bathe in it?

“Dad,” I said. He opened his eyes. Even that small effort seemed to cost him. “We’re at the spring. What do I do now?”

A shadow loomed over us. “You die,” boomed a man’s voice.

My instinct was to look up, toward the voice. But I ducked instead. A sword blade swished over my head.

I somersaulted and scrambled to my feet, drawing my sword.
A blur of red came at me. I parried his blow. I could see my attacker now: he had dark hair and a coal-black mustache; a tall, broad-shouldered man in a red tunic. He kept coming at me. I backed away from the spring, concentrating on fending off his hailstorm of blows.

“Stop it!” I shouted. “I don’t want to fight you. I’m trying to save my father’s life.”

“I am a Keeper of the magic. You have uncovered the hidden spring. You must die.”

There’s no reasoning with some people. I charged him.

The Keeper laughed. He blocked my thrust with his sword, as I’d expected. I slid my blade along the edge of his and moved it in a wide circle, like swinging a lasso, bringing it around and aiming for the side of his throat. Again he parried the blow.

I brought my arm up and twisted slightly, coming at him with a backhanded stroke. He blocked, but took a step back, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Leave us alone,” I said, “and I won’t kill you.”

The Keeper snarled and came at me. I wasn’t going on the defensive again. I met his attack and countered, pushing him back.

My ears strained to catch the sound of a splash behind me, to pick up some sign that Dad was using the spring. All I could hear was the harplike music of the flowing magic and my own harsh breathing.

The Keeper backed up another step, and I pressed my advantage, moving forward and aiming low. My blade slashed his left thigh. I raised it again and attacked from the right. He stopped the thrust and raised his arm, lifting my blade and forcing it to the side. At once, he sliced straight across, aiming for my head. I ducked.

The sweep of his stroke left his body wide open, and as I came up I sliced him deeply across the stomach. Rainbow-colored blood spilled from the gash.

The Keeper dropped his sword. Clutching the wound, he crumpled to his knees, then fell facedown on the forest floor.

I snatched up his sword and ran back to the spring.

My father wasn’t there.

Surely I’d laid him down right here, beside the spring. But the ground was empty.

Even shades can die,
my father had told me.
The magic bleeds away, and the spirit disperses. There’s nothing left.

Nothing left.

No. I wouldn’t accept that. He must have dragged himself away from the fight. I circled through the forest, searching, calling. Nothing.

I went back to the spring and stood beside it. I cupped my hands around my mouth and poured everything I had into my voice.

“Dad? Dad, where are you?”

I shouted until my voice was a mere croak, and even that didn’t stop me. I called and called, but the only answer was the lush music of magic bubbling in the spring.

DAD WAS GONE. I COULD STAND HERE CALLING FOREVER, BUT no answer would come. Yet how could I leave? I sank to the ground, my head in my hands.

You failed him again,
buzzed a voice inside my head.

I couldn’t rouse myself to tell Butterfly to shut up. The Eidolon was right, anyway.

And this time, you took two lives. That Keeper was only trying to do his job. And you’re letting the poor schmuck bleed to death on the ground. You cut him down, then you didn’t even bother to see if you could help him, did you?

“Letting” him bleed to death—was the Keeper still alive? I lifted my head. I got up and went over to where he had fallen.

The man hadn’t moved. He lay on his face, and his tunic had darkened to a deep burgundy. For a moment I thought it was blood, but shades’ blood was rainbow-colored, like the spring. As I watched, burgundy deepened to black. The Keeper wasn’t dead yet, but if he didn’t get to the cauldrons, he’d die in this clearing.

I rolled him onto his back. His eyes were closed; his pores sweated out magic. The wound in his stomach gaped like a huge, shocked mouth. This guy wouldn’t make it to the cauldrons or anywhere else.

What could I do? The spring’s musical bubbling filled the woods. Dad had hoped the magic would revive him. Could it help this dying Keeper? It was worth a try.

I went to the spring and, cupping my hands, dipped them into the pool. A sharp, electric tingle pricked along my forearms like needles. My fingertips buzzed with an odd, sizzling sensation. Walking quickly and trying not to spill any, I carried the liquid magic back to the fallen Keeper. I knelt beside him and let the magic drip from my hands into the gash.

The Keeper cried out, although his eyes stayed closed. The magic bubbled and steamed. Was it helping or hurting him? I stood, watching. The steam rising from the Keeper’s body expanded, surging up in colorful billows. Some got into my nose and throat and I backed away, coughing. If eating magical food was a bad idea for the clay-born, breathing magic was probably worse.

I couldn’t see the Keeper anymore; fog filled the woods. It was beautiful, like an abstract painting of the most exquisite colors you could imagine, but set in motion. I watched the hypnotic dance of colors. They took away a little of the pain that seared my heart.

Until that whiny voice started up again.
Oh, so now you’re an art lover? You can mope around here and look at the pretty colors all you want. But if you don’t haul ass to Tywyll and stop that Pryce, you’ll feel a hell of a lot worse. You think two deaths feel bad? Wait until millions die—and it’s all your fault.
A cackle.
I’ll be the fattest Eidolon in the history of demonkind.

“Since when did you become my conscience?”

Oh.
Silence.
Is that what I’m doing? Never mind.

Yet Butterfly was right. For all I knew, Pryce may have already succeeded. But if there was anything I could do to stop him, I had to try. Millions of lives
did
depend on me.

I gazed into the beautiful fog of magic, listened to the music that filled the forest. There was no other sound. “Good-bye, Dad,” I whispered. Then I turned around and headed back to the road that led to Tywyll.

THE CAPITAL CITY OF THE DARKLANDS WAS EXACTLY AS DAD had described it: a maze of narrow cobblestone streets that wound past squeezed-together shops and houses. Some of the
buildings were stone; others were half-timbered, with overhanging upper stories that looked ready to tumble into the street.

I’d entered Tywyll through the southern gate. My sense of direction hadn’t improved; I’d seen the word
Southgate
carved in ornate letters over the entrance. Shades were still pouring into town for the ceremony. The crowd flowed like a river of bodies through the streets, carrying me with it.

“Where’s the ceremony being held?” I asked a young woman in a charcoal-gray tunic.

“Resurrection Square, where else?” Her tone implied it was the stupidest question she’d heard in a while. She gave me a sidelong glance. “By the way, would you like—?” She fumbled in her pocket.

“Not hungry, thanks.” I cut her off before she could show me the roll or the orange or whatever she’d brought to eat. I didn’t need to see any food right now.

The crowd was moving steadily uphill, along a lane that gradually got steeper. My heart pumped harder with the effort of climbing. At the very top of the hill, the street widened into Resurrection Square. Going through the tight, narrow lanes of Tywyll, I’d expected the square to be small, nothing like the vast space that opened before me now. The place was larger than Rhudda’s archery range and banquet hall put together. In its center, three huge cauldrons clustered together in a triangular formation. Each of them looked to be ten or twelve feet high. I recognized the one that had been stolen from the Peabody, although it had grown so large that Pryce would need a crane to lift the thing now. The cauldron of transformation had been spiffed up, its dents repaired and its bronze polished so that it seemed to shine with an inner glow.

Bleachers stretched along three sides of the square. Shades climbed the steps and jostled each other for seats. More shades thronged the square at ground level. My group turned right, heading for a set of bleachers. I stepped out of the flow to take a better look around.

Along the stone wall beside me, a set of steps led up to a second-story balcony. That looked like a good vantage point; from up there, I could check out the square and maybe spot Pryce in the crowd. No one appeared to be on the balcony, although I couldn’t be sure from this angle. Keeping low, so I couldn’t be seen from the ground, I started climbing.

About halfway up, I paused. Kneeling on the steps, so I could just peer over the railing, I scanned the square again. A high platform with three golden chairs, the middle one distinctly regal-looking, had been erected in the space between the cauldrons. No one stood there yet, but the platform was obviously the spot where Lord Arawn would preside over the ceremony. The square was filling up fast, shades pouring in through all four entrances. So many people. Was Pryce among them? It was impossible to tell.